


More Doom & Despair (2016)

by okapi



Series: July Watson's Woes Prompts [2]
Category: Mой нежно любимый детектив | My Dearly Beloved Detective (1986), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, BAMF John Watson, Bees, Community: watsons_woes, Crack, F/F, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Gen, Gladstone the Dog, Grief/Mourning, Horror, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Massage, Masturbation, Metafiction, Music, Nightmares, Oscar Wilde - Freeform, POV Penis, Pining, Recipes, Retirement, Suicidal Thoughts, Turkish Bath, Winnie-the-Pooh References, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:13:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 11,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Entries for the July LJ Watson's Woes daily writing prompts. All chapters stand alone and ratings vary! </p><p>Mostly ACD ficlets & a trio from My Dearly Beloved Detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tis a Mere Scratch. (ACD. Retirementlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Stings  
> Fandom: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 221B  
> Notes: Holmes & Watson, retirementlock, references to "The Lion's Mane."  
> Summary: Bees aren't the only things that sting.  
> Prompt: **Tis a mere scratch.** We’re called Watson's Woes, kids... Have Watson choose to hide something bad from Holmes, or to minimize it, for whatever reason; it may or may not end well.  
>  Also for holmes_minor July prompt: bees.  
> 

I touched the side of my neck.

The sting had become a throb and journeyed with me from Sussex. The unguent, readily offered, accepted, and applied, had failed to have any effect.

Holmes was wholly settled into cottage life. He had friends. Harold Stackhurt was the sort of neighbour one could only hope for; on the evenings that he dropped in without invitation, I shared Holmes’ delight in his company.

He had cases. One night, he and Stackhurt had recounted a marvelous tale of a murderous sea creature that had washed up into a tidal pool.

He even had a chronicler for his cases, himself. The title of the new story was to be “The Lion’s Mane.”

He had an old housekeeper to look after the domicile.

And, of course, he had his bees.

He had waxed poetic about my winged assailant, using expressions he would have derided in my own writing some years ago. He was recording his observations of ‘the little working gangs’ for future publication and spoke at length about the segregation of the queen.

How far he had come from needing someone to go halves on diggings! He seemed as content in his retirement villa as he had been in London.

As the train pulled into the station, the throb re-fused into a sting.

Funny creatures, bees.


	2. Roll the Dice. (Link.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Four Horsemen  
> Fandom: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Explicit/NC-17  
> Length: 1605  
> Content Notes & Warnings: Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse AU; Mycroft/Lestrade/John/Sherlock; foursome; anal & oral sex & masturbation; no actual incest but Sherlock & Mycroft are at the same orgy picnic so your mileage may vary; crack; puns (including an Emily Dickenson one that I'm especially proud of); Holmes brothers bickering, John as Pestilence; Lestrade as War; Mycroft as Famine and Sherlock, of course, as Death.  
> Summary: The end of the world is decided by a roll of dice. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have a picnic (and sex) while they wait.  
> Author's Note: For the unfamiliar, pimento cheese is a sandwich spread made of lumpy cheese, mayonnaise and pimentos.  
> Prompt: **Roll The Dice:** Have a character take a risk, whether it's a calculated or a foolhardy one.

[Four Horsemen](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7370809) is posted as a separate fic.


	3. A Cardboard Box. (ACD. Fluff.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Gladstone  
> Fandom: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 200  
> Content Notes: fluff, Holmes & Watson  
> Summary: Holmes marks the anniversay of his & Watson's first meeting.  
> Prompt: **A cardboard box:** whether it contains human ears or nothing at all, include a cardboard box somewhere in your entry.

I set the bag on Watson’s chair. Its dark leather, polished and new, reflected the light from the fire in the same manner that its intended recipient reflected my own brilliance.

That is to say, beautifully.

Such was the mastery of Watson:  reducing a man of logic and science and reason to poetic musings and sentimental gestures.

Exactly one year ago I believed that I had made a marvelous discovery. Little did I know that the re-agent precipitated by hæmoglobin and nothing else would be the lesser of my finds on that particular day.

But I did not find Watson. He found me. We found each other.

He had arrived at 221B Baker Street with one cardboard box of belongings and a bull pup as sickly as himself.

The doctor rallied. The pup, to our mutual sorrow, did not.

I heard footsteps, now as familiar to me as my own, downstairs. I quickly reached into a cardboard box on the floor—the very same that had been under Watson’s arm a year ago—and drew out a squirming pup. I placed the little fellow in the bag and tossed the box behind my chair.

“Holmes?” he called.

“Watson!” I replied.


	4. Four Horsemen. (Link.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Four Horsemen (the Cheers Version)  
> Fandom: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Explicit/NC-17  
> Length: 500  
> Content Notes & Warnings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade, Oral sex, Come play, A bit of fat acceptance. Four Horsemen AU with John as Pestilence, Mycroft as Famine, Lestrade as War, and Sherlock as Death, pimento cheese. No group sex.  
> Summary: The horsemen are still waiting for the end of the world. A prequel to Saturday's fic.  
> Author's Note: For my Cheers ficlet collection. A four horsemen is Jameson, Jim Beam, Johnnie Walker, and Jack Daniel's.  
> Prompt: **Horsemen of the Apocalypse:** Let Death, Famine, Pestilence, or War appear in your entry today in some fashion.

[Chapter 18 of Cheers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6604225/chapters/16780951).


	5. A False Moustache (MDBD. Angst.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Blind  
> 'Verse: My Dearly Beloved Detective  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 221B  
> Content Notes: Shirley Holmes/Jane Watson (one-sided); angst  
> Summary: Shirley & Jane infiltrate a men's club. Jane's estranged fiance Robbie Summers vouches for them. After leaving the club, Shirley chastises Jane for not being professional. Jane thinks Robbie is a hero and calls him to say the engagement is back on.  
> Author's Notes: My Dearly Beloved Detective is a 1986 Russian film featuring Shirley Holmes & Jane Watson. It's available [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vphyWrz4Vv4) with English subtitles. I also wrote [Inky Quill's July column](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6848800/chapters/16813759) for this prompt.  
> Prompt: **A False Moustache:** As we know from canon, disguises and secret identities are Holmes' forte, but what about other characters? Involve someone else in disguise in today's entry.

Everything has a limit, you say.

We have a limit. Here it is.

Out of service, I can do what I want, you say.

Apart from recklessness, I say.

Recklessness, too, you say, and throw off jacket and wig and top hat.

I will never love you more than now. That fire, Jane. That is the fire I wished to kindle until it was an inferno, until it engulfed, consumed us both.

I watch a good detective die _in utero_.

Give me two pennies, you say, long hair flowing, ‘Bachelor Club Johnny’ mustache still glued to your upper lip.

Stop, Jane, I say. Futile protest. I give you the coins.

You choose Mrs. Robbie Summers over Jane Watson.

You are smiling. You are laughing. Your eyes are shining.

As if you have won.

Robbie Summers has won.

Shirley Holmes has lost.

Your gun, your boxing gloves, will soon be replaced. Or left to gather dust.

I will be—am—replaced.

I thought that the moustaches and the waistcoats and the ‘are you a gentleman?’ checks would be small prices to pay for a life extraordinary, for a path less taken, for puzzles and problems.

For me.

You look at a gambler and see a hero.

I look at Mrs. Robbie Summers and see Jane Watson.

Which of us is more blind?


	6. Food, Glorious Food. (ACD. Fluff.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Woodcock with Cumberland Sauce  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 508  
> Content Notes & Warnings: implied Holmes/Watson, fluff, innuendo, descriptions of cooking meat, including organ meat; references to "The Blue Carbuncle," "The Three Garridebs," "The Final Problem," and "The Disappearance of Lady Francis Carfax."  
> Summary: A favourite recipe of 221B  
> Prompt: **Food, Glorious Food:** A crime/mystery/anecdote/scenario involving food. As complex or simple as you wish to make it.

Recipe: Woodcock with Cumberland Sauce

_Woodcocks are at their best in December and January; they should be eaten before a crackling fire while the cold, cruel world, preferably blanketed in a mantle of new-fallen snow, is safely beyond frosted window panes._

Three to four woodcocks, plucked, allowing one per person for a main course and at minimum an extra half for the hearty appetites that result from a day spent battling the criminal classes. Remove only the hard gizzard, leave head and other innards intact. Brain and heart should remain in close proximity until the appointed hour.

If you should happen to find a cursed gemstone in any of the birds’ crops, please halt and follow up the clue while it is still hot. Your dinner will make a marvelous supper.

Truss the birds, tying the legs together like captured rogues awaiting the arrival of Scotland Yard’s finest, and tuck the long beak of each under a wing as if the fowl had been startled by a tacit declaration of undying devotion from one’s boon companion.

Cover the breasts with a rasher of streaky bacon as one might protectively stand between one’s beloved and a wily American counterfeiter’s bullet.

Roast for ten minutes, as one might on the upper floor of Northumberland Avenue establishment, garrulousness and ribaldry encouraged, until the meat is as pink as the tinge on the cheeks when a when a whispered flirtation finds its mark. And something stirs.

It is traditional for the innards, once cooked, to be scooped out and smeared on toast, much like the one’s heart at realising one’s love toppled to his death at a Swiss waterfall or like one’s heart, spread against a mossy slab, while observing abysmal sorrow take hold in the chest of one’s dearest.

Serve with a fine Montrachet and Cumberland Sauce (see below). Enjoy with someone who knows you better than you know yourself.

_Note: in some parts, the head of the woodcock is split in two, a half-head picked up by the beak like a spoon, and the brains slurped out. Gentle readers must decide for themselves whether they desire slurping or not; it is purely a preference._

Cumberland Sauce

  * Shallot, minced, for tears of grief and loss, then relief and reunion
  * Red currant jelly, for sweetness like stolen kisses or the first spoonful of a Sussex beekeeper’s first harvest
  * Port wine, for the steadying of nerves
  * _Glace de viande_ , or the juice of the woodcock that brought you
  * Salt, of the earth, like a faithful friend who is a soldier _and_ a doctor
  * Dry mustard, for wit as sharp as needles in a case gathering dust beneath the floorboard
  * Zest of a lemon and an orange, like the moment when a client—finally—arrives at the interesting part of the tale
  * Black pepper, generous amounts, for sneezing or any other explosions that serve as superior distractions for deft sleights of hand or the most necessary of trespassing.



Mix and simmer over two lifetimes and beyond. Do not be alarmed at the occasional ejaculation.


	7. Epidemic. (ACD. Fluff.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The London Garrotting Panic of 1882  
> Fandom: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 221B  
> Content Notes & Warnings: implied Holmes/Watson; fade-to-black slash teasing, mentions of garrotting.  
> Summary: The Garrotting Panic of 1862 resurges twenty years later.  
> Author's Summary: Mrs. Hudson's [investment](http://www.mcpheetersantiquemilitaria.com/02_firearms/02_item_014.htm%22) is worth a lot of money today.  
> Prompt: **Epidemic:** A word to strike fear into the hearts of men, but one that can be used in reference to giggles as easily as germs. How you choose to employ it is up to you.

A teacup clinked on return to its saucer.

“No.”

 “I say, Holmes.” I lowered my newspaper.

“No, Watson. The crime of garrotting is not on the rise.”

“How can you possibly…?”

“I perused that daily prior to your arrival. Given your penchant for the sensational, the headline no doubt caught your eye. Gross exaggerations and untruths. There is no epidemic of wire-wielding stranglers out there.” He gestured to the window. “The reports of our esteemed colleagues at Scotland Yard confirm what our own data suggest:  garrotting is no more or less frequent today than earlier years.”

My hand went to my neck. “Still…”

“If you wish, I could impart a few salient points from my study of the Japanese system of wrestling, and I am also a bit of a single-stick expert.”

“Holmes, I have had military training.”

His eyes lit with a mischievous glint, but his voice was casual, earnest. “Then by all means, an exchange of wisdom.”

I stifled a smile. “Words are poor substitute for demonstration.”

“My very thought.”

\---

“Should I go up and collect the breakfast things, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Best give the gentlemen another hour, my dear.”  

“Frightens me, the news of all these garrottings.”

“That’s why I made a small investment.”

“Oh my! What’s that?”

“Ball’s Patent Anti-Garrotter Belt Pistol. The gentlemen can have their _baritsu_.”


	8. The Wonder of the Age. (ACD. Holmes/Watson. Massage.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Above Rubies  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Mature  
> Length: 1065  
> Content Notes & Warnings: Holmes/Watson, H/C, massage, masturbation, AU post-"The Illustrious Client"  
> Summary: Watson aides Holmes in making a full recovery from injuries sustained during the Baron Gruner case.  
> Author's Note: For [sans_patronymic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic) for the loan of the puzzle box. Also for the 1_million_words prompt: physical therapy. I have written a couple of H/C stories around "The Illustrious Client" about why Watson is living at Queen Anne Street and what happens after Holmes is attacked. This fits into that AU. A bit off-prompt but Mezger did coin terms commonly used for massage techniques in 1878.  
> Prompt: **The Wonder of the Age:** For Victorian Holmes  & Watson it was things like telephones and motorcars; for current Sherlocks and John/Joan it’s more likely to be nanotechnology and/or iPhones; 22nd Century Holmes deals with androids and casual Moon travel. (For Sherlock Hound or Basil of Baker Street it’s probably flea powder.) Use or allude to such a modern miracle of the age for whatever age you choose.

A wince. A sharp inhale.

Though slight, faint, I noted both. My senses were as keen as a bloodhound’s, as keen as those of the man I was observing, had been observing, for weeks.

He was standing at his desk, fiddling with the Indonesian puzzle box that had arrived three days ago courtesy of his brother.

“Holmes, I have a proposal.”

I spoke with a heavy voice, which was equal parts captain and doctor and without a trace of awe-struck Boswell.

Holmes immediately set the puzzle box aside. He gestured for me to take what had once been my armchair while he lowered himself slowly into his.

“You have made tremendous strides in recovering from your injuries…”

I meant it quite literally. He now walked without a cane, moving with the resolve, if not the haste, to which he had previously been accustomed.

He had not regained his former grace, however. He was stiff, at times, even clumsy. His body pained him. I suspected that its disobedience to his mind pained him even more, but he went to great lengths to conceal his frustration, sorrow from the world around him.

I was not fooled, not for an instant.

I had been by his side through a series of cases that followed the Baron Gruner affair and observed that his convalescence had stalled far short of full restoration of strength and stamina

He fatigued easily. One day while he rested, I returned to my friend Lomax at the London Library and began a crusade for knowledge.

My quest was fueled not only by a desire to ease his suffering but also a very real fear that if an alternative source of comfort was not soon in the offing, he would continue to turn to the ever-welcoming embrace of morphine.

One chooses morphine for only so long, then morphine does the choosing.

“…you might benefit from a treatment…”

He snorted, rolled his eyes, and began to unfold himself from the chair.

“…of which I have, of late, become familiar…”

I had read for hour upon hour. I had visited scores of establishments. A few already were known to me, the Turkish baths of which I am so very fond. Under the guise of client, I went in search of more practical knowledge and passed many an afternoon in various nooks and corners, scribbling answers to questions and my own impressions.

“…and which I am prepared to administer myself, here.”

As intended, the last phrase stopped him.

“Here?” He gestured to the room around us.

I glanced toward the hallway that led to his bedroom. “Wherever you would be most comfortable.”

“This relates to your recent studies?”

I knew that my preoccupation had not escaped his notice, but until now, he’d said nothing.

I gave a single nod. “The manual manipulation of muscles, joints. New science by way of the Continent. Ancient wisdom from India, China. With a very modest of amount of…art in the blood.”

As intended, the last phrase provoked a brief smile.

He looked toward the puzzle box as if awaiting its view on the matter. After a long pause, he gave his answer.

“I place myself in your hands, Doctor.”

\---

“ _Effleurage_.”

He made the word sound as beautiful as it looked on the page, on the many pages, where I had found it.

Fingers skimmed skin, feather light strokes that deepened with every pass, willing through force of body and mind, mine, that blood flow as robustly as thoughts, his.

Flow and heal.

And not just heal him.

The estrangement that had led me to seek my own rooms on Queen Anne Street had vanished the very first moment that I read in black upon yellow of the murderous attack on Sherlock Holmes. But an absence of ill will is not a reconciliation.

Sliding, gliding, my hands travelled in circular paths.

This is me. This is you. This is us.

I explored, mapped, committed to memory the character of his skin, its warmth, colours, textures, and landmarks.

\---

“ _Petrissage_.”

My shirt hung from my waist, still tucked in my trousers.

I was sweating. He was sweating.

Hands moulded to valleys and peaks and rolling hills. Hands advanced in the slow, plodding rhythm of marching troops. Hands discovered the dip of his back and the roundness of his buttocks and the sinews of his thighs. Hands kneading, wringing, learning, not just the surface of him, but the underlying musculature as well, as if he were being sculpting, and re-sculpting, from clay.

The low, hollow groans that began to fill the room were recompense enough for all the hours spent pouring over manuscripts to learn the science and the philosophy and all the expenses incurred on excursions to venues to learn the art and, yes, a few tricks.

My palms, my fingers, my thumbs. Working, pressing, lifting. Listening to the messages that his body telegraphed.

More, less.

Yes, yes— _was there ever a more lovely sigh?_ —yes.

\---

My world reduced to the space that he and I and a bit of furniture and linen occupied.

“You needn’t bother with _tapotement_ , my dear man,” he murmured.

I turned him gently onto his back, then stood at his head, facing down his body.

Stroking, stroking, stroking.

Then, suddenly, a hand reached up and brushed a thick, rolling bead of sweat from my temple.

“John.”

I smiled and returned the gesture and offered a silent prayer of gratitude to Providence for the camouflage that profuse sweat provided tears.

Then I shifted to his feet, where I spent a considerable amount of time, in vain, attempting to regain my earlier concentration. I progressed to his thighs, then his inner thighs.

Then I took his hard, leaking, gorgeous prick in hand and brought him to climax.

\---

I was still tidying the space when he slipped into his dressing gown and waltzed— _yes, waltzed!_ —toward the far corner of the room. He plucked something from the darkness.

The puzzle box.

With a flurry of long fingers, it was open.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, holding a dark red stone between thumb and forefinger. “Another cursed gem to add to our collection, Watson!”

“I say, Holmes!” I exclaimed.

His eyes met mine, and the light in them softened. Then he gripped me by the back of the head with one hand and pulled me to him, whispering,

“A price _far_ above rubies, my dear man.”


	9. Please Stop Petting the Test Subjects. (Link.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Donut  
> 'Verse: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Length: 600  
> Content Notes & Warnings: Part of my Four Horsemen AU, Lestrade/John (War/Pestilence). Humor. Cute. Hand job. Anal sex.  
> Summary: Lestrade wants one of John's bunnies. Good thing for him, John hasn't got around to the tularemia yet.  
> Prompt: **Quote of the Day:** "Please stop petting the test subjects." Use this however this inspires you.

Donut is [Chapter 3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7370809/chapters/16900543%22) of Four Horsemen


	10. A Higher Power. (Link.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Lie-in  
> 'Verse: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Length: 650  
> Content Notes & Warning: Four Horsemen AU. Sherlock/John/Lestrade. Double anal penetration. Humor. Crack.  
> Summary: Death has an unauthorised lie-in. Intro and conclusion featuring God and God's right hand, Mrs. Hudson.  
> Prompt: **A higher power:** choose a deity from any mythos, religion, or mythology (Tiamat, Zeus, Cthulu, whoever) and use them as an inspiration.

Lie-in is [Chapter 4](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7370809/chapters/16931776%22) of Four Horsemen


	11. Threesome (Link.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Ouzo  
> 'Verse: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Explicit/NC-17  
> Length: 1000  
> Content Notes & Warnings: Four Horsemen AU; Lestrade/Mycroft/John; many references to canon story & Granada versions of "The Greek Interpreter," mentions of come play.  
> Summary: Mycroft extends a dinner invitation after a successful collaboration.  
> Author's Note: One day I'll write a fic where everyone keeps their breeches on. But not today.  
> Prompt: **Threesome:** Not necessarily the NSFW kind, but a threesome: John Watson being close to and/or working closely with someone besides Sherlock Holmes.

Ouzo is [Chapter 5](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7370809/chapters/16960311%22) of Four Horsemen.


	12. Photo: Fencing Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Art in the Blood  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 221B  
> Summary: At the Turkish bath with Watson, Holmes shares an anecdote from his childhood.  
> Author's Note: Not Watson-centric but he is narrating. I guess I'm the only one who loves photo prompts! I have been waiting for one. Photo: [fencing woman](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1552218.html).

I have mentioned in my chronicles that it was over a smoke in the pleasant lassitude of the drying-room of a Turkish bath that I found my friend Sherlock Holmes to be less reticent than anywhere else. I have also mentioned that he rarely spoke of his own early life. Astute readers might infer from these two assertions that our conversations at the Turkish bath did, from time to time, include reminiscences.   
  
And they would be correct.   
  
“There once was a man who lived in the vicinity of my family home,” Holmes began one afternoon, “who boasted of his prowess with a sword and challenged anyone who dared to a contest, the prize being a handsome watch, worth a considerable sum. Each family sent their best fencer, and one by one, he bested them. Finally, it was our family’s turn. Our entrant arrived full dressed and in less than a quarter of an hour, had him defeated. He presented the watch, a proud man completely humbled, and ...”   
  
He paused.   
  
“And?” I asked eagerly, for by now I was seeing sharp rapiers crisscrossing through the smoke that hovered between us.   
  
“And my grandmother accepted it with grace and dignity.”   
  
“Ha!” I cried.   
  
“She was a _femme formidable_ , Watson. As I have said before, it may take many forms, art in the blood.”


	13. Nature is Red in Tooth and Claw. (ACD. H/C.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Balling  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 221B  
> Content Notes: H/C; Watson nightmare, post-Reichenbach, slash goggles optional, more conversations at the Turkish bath.  
> Summary: A discourse on bees by Holmes leads to a nightmare for Watson.  
> Author's Note: Balling is a process whereby the workers cluster around the queen bee; her death may resulted from overheating. One reason for balling is removal of the old queen with the arrival of a new one. I'm not an expert on bees so there may be things I'm missing.  
> Prompt: **"Nature is red in tooth and claw":** Let your entry today feature an element of nature that is less than pleasant.

Wings beating.

Two, four, a hundred, more, until the world was a sepia cloud of frantic fluttering.

Heat.

Wings fanning hot drafts of air in and out.

The world on fire.

Hissing multiplied a thousand fold.

A cry pierced the cacophony of the legion.

“Watson!”

I could not stop. I could offer neither relief nor mercy.

His death was my responsibility.

His death was my fault.

Wings became water. Dark torrents filling a cauldron below.

I woke to a hand on my shoulder.

“The apologies owed to you, Watson, number one thousand and one. I should have foreseen how you would be affected by my discourse today.”

I wiped my brow with the proffered handkerchief and threw off the heavy blanket.

“Discourse?” I mumbled. There had been a case, but it had concluded in the morning.

“At the bath. I spoke of the process of supersedure and the removal of the older queen. I confess that at the time I did not even think my words had penetrated.”

“I confess that until now I did not know that they had either. Sometimes your voice, when you are speaking on a topic of great interest to you, takes on a melody not unlike a lullaby.”

He raised violin and bow.

I nodded and closed my eyes and dreamt no more of bees.


	14. Rehabilitation/Recovery. (ACD. H/C. Music.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Lieder  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 530  
> Content Notes: H/C, slash goggles optional.  
> Summary: Music soothes Watson's shaken nerves.  
> Prompt: **Rehabilitation/Recovery:** What comes after the whumping? Focus today on the recovery from an illness or injury.

The lapse of time between events and their availability for consumption by the reading public allows for editorialising. When I wrote in _A Study in Scarlet_ that Holmes played some favourite pieces of mine on the violin at my request I was purposefully giving the reader the false impression that these melodies, Mendelssohn’s _Lieder ohne Worte_ being emblematic of the lot, were favourites of mine prior to my arrival at Baker Street. In that same tale, I recounted my first exchanges with Holmes, his confession of his violin-playing and query as to if such playing would be included in my category of rows and my response about well-played versus badly-played violins—as if I could distinguish a treat for the gods from a cat in heat.

The latter could not be further from the truth.

I had very little formal musical education and never developed even a cursory appreciation for or understanding of the art. My days studying in Edinburgh and later in the army did nothing to ameliorate my condition, but that changed when I took up lodgings with Sherlock Holmes.

My nerves were shaken as a result of the war and my injuries and never more so than in those early days at Baker Street. I slept little and lightly for invariably when I closed my eyes, whether in bed, sofa, or armchair before the fire, images would invade my slumber, terrifying scenes based on my experiences in Afghanistan but distorted to grotesque _Gran Guignol_ proportions, almost always accompanied by the shrieks and cries of a world gone mad.

Then one night I woke to something soft and beautiful emanating from the sitting room. It was like grace itself made audible and it beckoned me, hinting at some halcyon river bank where I could rest with ease. I donned my dressing gown and slippers and found Holmes waltzing slowly about the space, violin under his chin.

“What is it?” I mumbled. “The name.”

“Mendelssohn. _Lieder ohne Worte_. Song without words.”

“May I?” I gestured to the sofa. He nodded. I reclined and closed my eyes and knew there would be no more words—and no more nightmares—until morning.

At breakfast, before launching into conversation about potential cases and news of the day, he gave me a brief, informal lecture about Mendelssohn and the piece he had played. I felt more refreshed and optimistic than I had in quite some time so I was able to both absorb the lesson and express heartfelt appreciation for it.

And so we continued night after night for some weeks. He moved on from Mendelssohn’s _Lieder_ to other composers and their works and I slowly began to cultivate my own taste. So, yes, in the end, I did request certain melodies. And he did always end any discordant recitals of the thinking aide variety with a selection of my favourites, but they were favourites that he himself was responsible for making favoured. My sleep improved and so did the rest of my health as well as my outlook on life.

And though in the years that followed we argued on many points, I never, ever included violin-playing in my category of rows.

 


	15. Throw the Book at 'Em. (ACD. Retirementlock. Wilde.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Wallpaper  
> Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Mature  
> Length: 658  
> Content Notes & Warnings: Retirementlock, Holmes/Watson, masturbation (not graphic)  
> Summary: Holmes (and Watson) quote (and misquote) Wilde.  
> Summary: Lots of Oscar Wilde quotes from Lady Windemere's Fan, The Importance of Being Earnest and other writings. Some deliberate misquoting too. More typos than usual as I'm having technical difficulties.  
> Prompt: **Throw the Book at 'Em.** Include a literary reference in today's work. Make sure that your reading/viewing audience knows what it is, but whether or not any other characters (such as Holmes) understands the reference is up to you.

“Holmes, are you ill or just having a lie-in?” I peeked through the crack in the bedroom door.

“The wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death, Watson. One or the other of us has to go.” He was still in nightdress, ensconced amongst bedclothes and pillows.

“Dying again, I see?” I pushed open the door and leaned against the frame. I threw the kitchen towel over my shoulder and crossed my arms over my chest. “You know to die once—or even twice—in this lifetime may be regarded as misfortune. A third seems like carelessness.”

He gave me a breathtakingly wicked smile, then addressed the ceiling,

“Quotation is a serviceable substitute for wit.”

“Apparently. You know what I could never resist?” I asked, quickly stripping down to pants and vest.

“Temptation,” he replied, throwing back the duvet in invitation. I slid between the sheets and nestled beside him.

He drew the sheet up over his nose and mouth and made his eyes round with dramatic surprise. “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.”

“It is my privilege in this life to have been your mask to the world, Holmes, but a thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.”

He made an affronted noise and feigned being wounded. Then he said softly, “Anybody can make history. Only a great man can write it.” He looked down and brushed a lock of hair from my face. “I live in terror of not being misunderstood.”

“Rest easy, my dear man, on that front. I’ve befuddled them all. But, in my defense, I had nothing to declare but your genius. That I did. Dates, however, names…”

He snorted, then added, “…including your own.” Then he took my hand in his and laced our fingers together. “You sing a song only I can hear,” he said solemnly.

I smiled and brought our hands to my lips and kissed his. “You never treated me like I was ordinary.”

He shook his head. “Impossible.” He brushed his lips across my temple. “We lived, not just existed,” he whispered, his voice heavy with nostalgia.

“We are still living, Holmes. You will best the wallpaper. I have full faith. So what are your plans for the day? Are you going to breakfast or continue to amuse yourself?” I smiled and kissed his shoulder as his hand caressed me atop, and then beneath, my pants.

“I was to venture to town,” he said carelessly, continuing his ministrations below the covers.

“Would you care for company?”

“I never travel without my diarist,” he growled. “One should always have something sensational to frig on the train.”

I gave a throaty laugh. He pressed his lips to mine, then leaned away to slick his hand. He quickly returned and stroked me to hardness, then release. I returned the favour and when we were both spent and kissing each other with unabashed sentimentality, he drew back and said,

“The truth is rarely pure and never simple, save this one.”

“I love you, too, Holmes. Now,” I glanced toward the door. “With tea and toast and honey and marmalade, who could not be happy?”

He nodded and made to rise from the bed. I circled it and aided him in getting to his feet. When he stood tall, I reached up and drew a hand down his face like a blind man.

“A man’s face is his autobiography,” I said.

He kissed my fingertips. “Romance or mystery?”

“Both. The best stories are.” I helped him into his dressing gown, then donned my own. “Oh, there are muffins, too.”

“One must eat muffins quite calmly, it is the only way to eat them!” he cried, then he passed through the doorway, only stopping to rip a scrap of fleur-de-lis paper from the wall and menace, “I shall deal with you later.”


	16. I Feel a Bit Prouder Knowing Sherlock Holmes is British (ACD. Retirementlock. Fluff.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Storytime  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 100  
> Content Notes: Retirementlock, Holmes/Watson, pure fluff  
> Summary: Another scene from the Retirementlock bed.  
> Author's Note: A short but sweet page from thesmallhobbit's book. Holmes would be 72.  
> Prompt: **"I Feel A Bit Prouder Knowing Sherlock Holmes Is British”:** The British Isles and Ireland have given the world a vast treasury of fictional characters apart from Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, ranging from Finn MacCoul to Harry Potter. There’s already been some overlap: in ACD’s CHAS Watson compares Milverton to Dickens’ Mr. Pickwick, and BBC John and Sherlock watch James Bond films. Have a character (or characters) from another British work crop up in some way in your offering.

I adjusted my spectacles and my arm around Holmes’s shoulders.   
  
_ “So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, ‘Silly old Bear!’”  _  
  
I looked down. “So, what’s the verdict? Should the venerable Doctor Watson read,” I lifted the cover,”  _ Winnie the Pooh _ at Children’s Story Hour?”   
  
“Inconclusive. Need more data.” He snuggled closer. “Perhaps another chapter.”   
  
I smiled, nodded, and began anew,  _ “The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree…” _


	17. A Team Effort. (ACD. Watson/Mycroft. Pining.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Strangers  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 300  
> Content Notes: Watson/Mycroft (one sided); references to "The Greek Interpreter."  
> Summary: Watson meets Mycroft in the Stranger's Room months after the case of the Greek interpreter  
> Author's Note: An experiment to see if I could convince myself of Mycroft/Watson in canon. Verdict: beyond a whiff of pining, no.  
> Prompt: **A Team Effort:** Teamwork saves the day, or not.

The clock did not chime seven in the Stranger’s Room.

“Doctor Watson.”

“How have you been, Mister Holmes?”

“Very well.”

“I bring news from Bud-Pesth.”

“Ah yes. Stabbing of two Englishmen. Hungarian police will make nothing of it. Tragedy.”

“Your friend Mister Melas was spared that greater misfortune.”

“But I fear he will never be the same. He has already returned to his country.”

“The case was a bit of a marvel. Joined efforts, wits. It was a pleasure to work with you, and I was wondering if…”

His watery grey eyes lost their far-away look for a moment.

“Doctor Watson.”

I felt the heat rise in my face. “I apologise for disturbing your routine,” I mumbled.

The touch of a broad, flat hand stopped me as I turned.

“Holmes consults you on cases. He says you are his superior in observation and deduction,” I said.

“If he has told you all that, then he has also told you that I am the laziest, most unambitious man alive.”

I smiled and nodded.

“You are a soldier, Doctor Watson, a man of action. Action requires energy, and I was not exaggerating when I said that Sherlock has all the energy of the family. I am without the vigour necessary to extend to you a proper dinner invitation, much less to, say, accompany you to a Bath or,” I followed his gaze to the short, white hair on my trouser leg, “play with a bull pup. But I hold you in great esteem, and I believe that we, you and I and Sherlock, will work together again someday.”

“I look forward to it,” I said, extending my hand.

He shook it. “As do I. Well, I must return to my bow-window on the world. Good evening to you, sir. Give Sherlock my best.”

I watched him lumber silently out of the room.


	18. Handwritten. (ACD. post-Reichenbach fluff.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Apology  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Teen  
> Length: 400  
> Content Notes: Holmes/Watson; post-Reichenbach; reference to sex; writing on the body; fluff; humor.  
> Summary: The morning after the post-Reichenbach reunion.  
> Prompt: From **"Handwritten"** by The Gaslight Anthem  
>  And with this pen, I thee wed  
> From my heart to your distress

I shielded myself behind a newspaper and fired my shot.

“A thousand apologies, hmm?  Nine hundred and sixty-six remaining.”

The word ‘apology’ had been written in a hand that, while not as firm and clear as that of the note left on a Swiss boulder, was still instantly recognisable to one who had committed that spray-soaked, tear-stained missive to memory.

Apology.

Writ.

Large and small.

In the blackest of inks.

On the expanse of skin between knee and crease of inner thigh.

My knee, my thigh.

My apologies.

Thirty-four.

I had counted them because I knew that he had counted them.

Sentiment aside, the gesture had amazed me for the sheer daring of its execution.

I am a light sleeper by nature and profession—doctors and soldiers are not permitted to sojourn with Queen Mab for long—and my caution to Holmes when we first met, that I got up at all sorts of ungodly hours, was still very much true. My grief at his and my dear Mary’s deaths had naturally done nothing to alleviate my condition.

But when one slumbers in the arms of one’s beloved—spent of all the tears, sweat, and seed that a man can spend in the few hours before dawn—I suppose the sleep is bound to be a profound one.

So deeply asleep in the grave of my risen Lazarus was I that I had not felt even one swipe of a pen.

“Once a fortnight,” the return volley was accompanied by the rustling of newsprint and clink of porcelain, “and I shall have paid my debt in a period of fourteen months or so.”

Well, there was something to be said for restraint. Absence and hearts and fondness. But frankly I was of the opinion that we had already endured our absence, a painful three-year one, and now was the time for the fondness. An abundance of fondness at quite frequent intervals, if I had my preference.

But, there was something to be said for restraint.

“Once a fortnight?” I queried.

This time the newspaper-rustling was of the curtain-lowering variety so I followed suit and met his gaze.

“I’m afraid that is all my augmentation of Mrs. Hudson’s laundry allowance will afford us,” he said.

Ah.

The smudging of ink on sheets. The smearing of ink on towels.

“There is romance, my dear Watson, and then there is clean linen.”

“Quite.”


	19. Great Minds Think Alike (ACD. Alternate Ending. Carfax.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: In Her Best Interest  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 221B  
> Content Notes: References to "The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax"; BAMF Watson.  
> Summary: Let's give poor Lady Frances Carfax a slightly better ending.  
> Author's Note: **How It Should Have Ended.** Take any story from any canon and rewrite the ending to come out differently.

  
_“And here…is someone who has a better right to nurse this lady than we have. Good morning, Mr. Green—“_   
  
“No,” I said firmly. “Send for Miss Dobney. We shall move Lady Frances, but then I want an army of nurses—good ones, I shall provide names—by her side at all times, and this man,” I stared down the huge, swarthy fellow, making my words as hard as iron, “will not see her unless _ she _ wishes it.”   
  
“Watson?”   
  
“Holmes, we have only his recollection of the coarseness that drove a wedge between them years ago. But we do know that she purposefully left Lausanne for Baden without alerting him. Many a man has thought himself loved when it was mere cordiality—or even fear. This poor woman has been tortured enough by evil forces disguised as well-meaning ones. I shan’t leave her to be prey to such deceit again.”   
  
Green was once again a snarling tiger, ready to spring, but I did not waiver.   
  
“I am acting in  _ her _ best interest. If you love her as you say, you will wait your summons. If it is beastly pride and ego driving you, I am well prepared to deal with that.”   
  
The click of my revolver, then Holmes’ voice, broke the silence.   
  
“Mr. Green, I would do as you are bid.”


	20. Turn of the Tide (ACD. Retirementlock. POV Holmes. Angst.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Tidal Pool Counsellor  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 827  
> Content Notes: POV Holmes, Retirementlock, references to "The Lion's Mane," slash googles optional, angst, misunderstanding.  
> Summary: After Watson's visit to Sussex, a troubled Holmes confides in an unlikely counsellor.  
> Author's Note: Companion piece to Chapter 1 of this collection [Stings](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7390423/chapters/16787080%22). Watson is not in it, but he is the subject of Holmes' conversation. Also I already covered this ground a bit in my [Sherlock60](http://sherlock60.livejournal.com/581695.html%22) for "The Lion's Mane."  
> Prompt: **Turn of the Tide:** "There is a tide in the affairs of men" - Shakespeare: Julius Caesar

I slowly made my way down the steep and slippery path to the beach.

I had gone about one hundred yards, my feet crunching the pebbles and shingles as I strode, when I stopped at a favourite spot, a point where the curves and hollows were filling afresh with each flow of the tide.

And there I saw it.

Another lion’s mane, like the one that had killed McPherson and attacked Murdoch.

It was early morning and I had the shore to myself. I addressed the creature from a distance.

“Watson is none too pleased with my role in the death of your countryman. He said that there ought to have been warnings posted, but no direct action taken to eliminate the predator. He took most exception to my characterisation of the offender as ‘murderer’ and his acts, which he called ‘self-defense,’ as ‘mischief.’ Well,” I said, eyeing the tangled mass, “if he doesn’t like my story, he should have offered to write it himself. But he didn’t, did he?”

“I very much fear—and fear is the precise word—that Watson’s weekend visit will be his final one. There was something in his eyes when we bid our farewells that made me think that we shall not see each other again. Illogical, irrational, and yet he is slipping beyond my ken, of that I am certain.”

“Outwardly, he seemed in good spirits, as taken with the soothing life of Nature as I am. He liked the cottage, the views and the beach; liked Stackhurst and our spirited performance of The Mystery of the Lion’s Mane; was properly agog at my chronicling of my own tale; even took an interest—though not as keen as mine, but then who’s would be?—in the bees.”

“But the blasted bees! I told them of Watson, of his impending visit, of our friendship of many years, I told them as I have been instructed, to tell them of anything important in the life of their keeper. And is there anything more important than Watson?”

“So little worker gang and queen were well-informed, and yet what did one rogue of their numbers do?! Sting him!”

I shook my head.

“I suppose you will defend the bee, who, like your friend, lost his life as a result of the attack. I offered Watson salve, an unguent of my very own, the skill of which’s fabrication did not appear to impress him. He nevertheless accepted the remedy. My offer to apply it myself was rejected, as expected. He is, after all, a medical man, he doesn’t need a layman tending to his simple wound. No…”

“Perhaps it was just the sting that bothered him, for every moment of the visit was calculated with his enjoyment in mind. ‘Here, Watson!’ I cried. Beautiful views of the Channel. Long walks along the shore. Storytelling. Comfortable, well-cared-for, well-provisioned lodgings. Intellectual as well as leisurely diversion. I confess I also wanted to demonstrate to him that the temptation to alter my mind with substances is long past. The bees occupy my mental faculties as well as the occasional puzzle; the affair of the Lion’s Mane only proves that singular, abstruse, and unusual problems are still possible, if admittedly less frequent, in this quiet corner of the world. And yet, there was something missing, something he was waiting for, something that he wanted, but that did not appear or occur or arrive.”

I lifted my head and threw my questions into the waves.

“What? What was it?”

The draw of the ocean and the cries of a pair of gulls were my only replies.

I stared and stared, but the answer, if indeed it existed, remained hidden in the depths of the rolling waters.

My gaze returned to the vibrating hairy creature in the tidal pool.

“You extend one of your yellow-and-silver streaked tresses in my direction as if offering a hand to shake, but I am not deceived. You would avenge your departed friend much quicker than calm my rattled nerves. So would I, were our positions reversed. I can appreciate the beauty and power of single-mindedness.”

“And perhaps, as I am not deceived by you, I should not be deceived by Watson either. He is not _my_ Watson, after all. He is his own person. And if the bustle of his current life still fulfills him, if he is—perish the thought, _bored_ , or, simply just not as enraptured as I, of the withdrawn life and all its bucolic charms, and much too polite to confess it plainly in words, well then, who am I to judge him?”

I sighed. “But I judged your friend, didn’t I? I am sorry.”

I turned back toward the path from whence I had come and offered these parting words to the _Cyanea capillata_.

“Shakespeare said, ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men.’ And I see that yours is on the ebb. Perhaps mine is as well. Good-bye, counsellor.”


	21. 21 Song Salute (Link.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Someone to Watch Over Me  
> 'Verse: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Explicit/NC-17  
> Length: 780  
> Content Notes & Warnings: Four Horsemen AU; John/Mycroft & John/Mycroft/Lestrade; Anal & Oral sex; armadillos.  
> Summary: In pursuit of the lost fez, John falls down a hole and is rescued by Mycroft. Sexy-forest-times ensue with them and Lestrade and the armadillos get away and find a new ally in Death.  
> Author's Note: 21 songs and I only recognised one! What hole am I living in?! Sadness.  
> Prompt: **21 Song Salute.** My choice was "Someone to Watch Over Me."

[Chapter 7](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7370809/chapters/17164342)of Four Horsemen.


	22. Shine Yer Shoes Guv'nor? (MDBD. POV OC.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Chance Encounter  
> 'Verse: My Dearly Beloved Detective  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 221B  
> Content Notes: Original Character (daughter of Jane Watson & Robbie Summers). Outsider POV. Indirect angst  
> Summary: The daughter of Jane Watson & Robbie Summers meets Shirley Holmes for the first time.  
> Author's Notes: My Dearly Beloved Detective is a 1986 Russian film featuring Shirley Holmes & Jane Watson. It's available [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vphyWrz4Vv4) with English subtitles.  
> Prompt: **Shine Yer Shoes Guvnor?** Take a child’s-eye view of Holmes and/or Watson or their world, in any version. It can be the POV of an Irregular, the child of a wealthy client, Olivia Flaversham, or Young Sherlock Holmes for that matter.

_Dear Diary,_

_Today I met the most extraordinary lady and to think at first I thought her a gentleman! Mummy and I ran into her in town. She was an old friend of Mummy’s, later Mummy told me her name, Shirley Holmes, and that she and Mummy used to work together. How odd that Mummy never mentions her! And that Mummy once worked! I bid the lady—who was dressed just like a proper lad—good morning, then feigned interest in a shop window so as to study them in the reflection. Mummy’s face! Joy and sadness and that faraway look she gets when she tends the fire too long._

_I was looking down when a voice said,_

_“Miss Summers?”_

_Those eyes! Like spiders dancing across my skin. As if she knew my favourite sweetmeat and how much I want a puppy and how the evil neighbour-boy torments me when no one’s looking._

_“Good day,” she said and disappeared._

_What a curious moment, I thought, but later, hidden in the folds of my skirt I found a tract: A Young Girl’s Guide to the Oriental Art of Self-Defence by S. Holmes. Mummy says I may keep it but must hide it where Papa—if ever he returns—shan’t see._

_So naturally, I tucked it alongside you, Dear Diary._

_In the Bible._


	23. The Lowest and Highest Form of Humour. (Horror. Maj. Char. Death)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: One-Eyed Monster  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Length: 366  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Content Notes & Warnings: Horror; **major character death** ; POV Holmes' penis; AU; Turkish bath; oral & anal sex; prose-poem.  
> Summary: A one-eyed monster lays siege to Watson.  
> Prompt: **The Lowest and Highest Form of Humour:** Use a pun in your entry today.

I stir the moment I hear him speak.

Finally, a worthy sacrifice.

Soldier. Doctor. Handsome, even in his ill and injured state. When recovered, restored he would equal a dozen simpering virgins at the entrance of a maze.

But Mind rebels.

No, it says.

I feign disinterest.

Very well, I reply.

I am a patient monster. I only make my presence known in the wee small hours of the morning when even Mind, with its strength of a hundred, is lax with fatigue.

His hands, I coo.

Calloused but kind. Bestowing proper adoration.

His mouth.

Has tasted much of the world and will know how to savour.

That tickling moustache!

I am a whimsical monster. On occasion.

I wait. And, as predicted, Mind is too clever.

It observes the double-tied bootlaces and does its usual acrobatics.

And lands right where I wish.                                             

In temptation. The Turkish bath.

* * *

I am sweating, throbbing from outer, not inner, heat. But I persevere because I know the scenes with which Mind has been entertaining itself night after night. I know cool waters are in the offing. And I know the exact probability that a calloused but kind hand will be stroking me forthwith.

I wait. I am a patient monster.

* * *

I sing! I am a greedy monster.

One petting is not enough. I want more. And more. And sacrifice.

Mind says, yes, yes, and no!

* * *

I am a sea monster once again. Hidden from sight. Being teased and coaxed by expert hand. I prod Mind with the image of a rising kraken, and oh!

I soar into air, then am swallowed up, plummeting into a tight, warm cavern.

The moustache tickles.

* * *

I am a warrior monster.

The battles I lose. The war, however…

“Holmes, please. Fuck me. Make me yours.”

Mind surrenders at the plea and prepares the sacrifice.

I enter, offering consummate reward with my assault upon the protrusion.

The walls shake. Then I lay siege, sucking every last drop of life from my host.

I am a greedy monster.

* * *

I am a miserable monster.

I curse my Nature and Mind’s debility.

And my eye weeps a single, mournful tear for my spent, but oh so worthy, sacrifice.


	24. Nothing shocks me, I'm a scientist! (ACD. Humour. Drabble.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Roar  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 100  
> Content Notes: Crack, humour, Holmes & Watson, reference to another ACD character  
> Summary: Conduct some light, Watson! Quickly!  
> Prompt: **“Nothing shocks me. I’m a scientist!"** (from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom)--use this in the entry today, either at the beginning, end, or middle.

“Nothing shocks me, Watson. I am a scientist, a natural philosopher, by training.   
  
“Oh, really? You anticipated this result?”    
  
“Watson, when one sets about eliminating the possibilities, one must begin with the _entire_ set of possibilities.”   
  
“Oh, really?”   
  
“You are being tedious and cursing the darkness, Watson, when you should be conducting light!”   
  
“I knew that no good would come of your tests of the insects suspended in amber…”   
  
My words were drowned in the roar of a pterodactyl before it ate half of the sofa.   
  
“Mrs. Hudson is going to be very cross.”   
  
“Perhaps we should phone Professor Challenger.”


	25. Trope Trainwreck! (ACD+BBC. Meta. Crack. Omegaverse. Humor.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: A Study in Harlots (chapter 1)  
> 'Verse: ACD+BBC  
> Length: 676  
> Rating: Mature  
> Content Notes: Crack, humor, omegaverse, in a Star-Trekesque AU, meta-jokes about tropes, deliberate use of cliches typically used in fanfic smut  
> Summary: Alpha Holmes & Omega Watson meet in a laboratory.   
> Author's Note: When I recover from July, I am contemplating a new series of crack canon stories. This is a very rough draft of the first scene. Meta because fem!John is writing this and I hope to provide a version with snarky comment/edits from fem!Sherlock.  
> Prompt: **Trope Trainwreck!:** Pile on as many tropes as possible in one fic - Omega-verse, Sentinel-verse, Paranormal-verse, Daemons-verse (His Dark Materials), Mirror-verse, etcetera, etcetera. Why not have an Alpha Sentinel Werewolf John Watson paired with a hedgehog daemon and hiding embarrassing tentacles where something else ought to be? Mix  & Match like mad! (And for those of us who don't know all (or even many of) the tropes, kindly include a list of tropes used somewhere in your entry, please and thank you in advance!)

From the mysterious intergalactic press that brought you _Tales of Forbidden Omega Love!_  
comes a new serial publication  
 _THE FRAYED STRAND_  
proudly presents  
 **A Study in Harlots**  
by  
Sir Aren'tyou_Comingtoa_Boil?

* * *

Chapter 1

“Fuck!”   
  
The Alpha smelled delicious.  Of chemicals, black tea, and something uniquely him.   
  
His cock was equally delicious, stretching me as it plunged over and over in my warm, welcoming hole. Though large and thick and with a sinister bent to the left, it slid inside me easily, its path made smooth by my copious secretions, which while not the torrent that arrived during heat, were enough to render any kind of lubricant superfluous.    
  
Not that lubricant would have been a problem.    
  
We were in a laboratory, after all.   
  
The Alpha came. So did I.    
  
We cleaned ourselves and set our uniforms to rights in silence, but before I reached the exit, I heard,   
  
“You have fought in the latest Earth-Romulan War, I perceive.”   
  
I turned, astonished. “How did you know that?”   
  
“Never mind. The question now is about bloodwine. Let’s see. I’ve found it! I’ve found it!” He sprang toward a rack of test tubes and lifted one. Then he put a drop of liquid on a glass slide and inserted in a tele-screen. “I have found a re-agent that is precipitated by bloodwine, and by nothing else.”   
  
“You are to be congratulated,” I remarked, smiling at his exuberance.   
  
“You fail to see the significance. Now Klingon crimes will not go undetected. Their disruptors and blades are always forged and blessed with this ceremonial beverage, and thus always leave a trace of it behind on their victims. The old test was clumsy and uncertain. Why I can think of at least three Klingon who would be in the brig right now had this been in existence.”    
  
Then he sighed. “I am forgetting my half-human manners. Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”   
  
I stared at the extended hand for a moment. What were the odds that I would walk into a laboratory, inhale, and offer myself to a gentle-Alpha, who was at least part Vulcan, judging by the pointy ears?    
  
I shook his hand and replied, “Watson.”   
  
“You’re a friend of Stamford’s. Also a doctor. You were supposed to meet him here, but you got lost and entered the scientific laboratory instead of the clinical one.”   
  
“Oh, goodness, forgive the intrusion…”   
  
“A simple mistake because Stamford himself switched the signs for the two laboratories, which he frequently does to lure Omegas that he believes will interest me to my doorstep, so to speak. A bit of secondary gender match-making on his part.”   
  
“I say!”   
  
“Please don’t alarm yourself. This will be the last occasion for his meddling.”   
  
“Oh yes?”    
  
His expression grew serious. “I complained to him that no one would go halves with me on quarters.”   
  
“Well, I am looking for diggings myself, but an Alpha and an Omega living together…”   
  
“You don’t mind the smell of a strong, virile cock, I hope?”   
  
“By no means,” I replied, smirking.   
  
“Let’s see. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments.”   
  
“I see. And applaud.”   
  
“What are my other shortcomings? I am an unholy mix of human, Vulcan, and Alpha, which means I can be logical and illogical at the same time. What have you to confess?”   
  
“I am also an all-human unholy mix, but of doctor, soldier, and Omega. I have the occasional Unexpected Heat, though I take suppressants on a regular basis. My nerves are shaken from my war days so I object to rows.”   
  
“Do you include Vulcan lute playing in your category of rows?”   
  
“It depends on the player.”   
  
“Would you pretend to be my husband, slave, or Shoscombe spaniel for a good cause?”   
  
“Absolutely.”   
  
“How about allowing me to experiment on you? Or in-quarters phaser practice?”   
  
“Outwardly, I will be terribly cross. Inwardly, though, I will be charmed.”   
  
“Oh, that’s all right. I think we may consider the thing as settled—that is, if the quarters are agreeable to you.”   
  
“When shall I call for you to see the rooms?”   
  
“We can go at once. Or if you’d prefer, after a quick celebratory fuck.”   
  
“To a new partnership,” I said, lowering my uniform trousers.

“Indeed. And the new Holmes test for bloodwine.”


	26. Elementally, My Dear Watson (ACD. Angst. Grief. POV Watson.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Buried  
> Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 221B  
> Content Notes & Warnings: Angst, grief, suicidal thoughts, POV Watson, Hiatus post-Mary death  
> Summary: Watson grieves.  
> Prompt: **Elementally, My Dear Watson:** Earth/Air/Fire/Water. Involve one or more of them in your entry today.

I confess that these days my thoughts turn to coffins. Their size. Their dimensions. Their wood. Their weight as they are lifted, carried, and lowered. Their price, even, as crude as the notion may strike some, for I was recently in the market for one.   
  
Mary’s final resting place, her patch of earth, is marked with stone. I may visit it whenever I wish, and I wish often these days.   
  
Holmes’s grave is a watery one. Should I desire to pay my respects, it would be a long journey to a Swiss waterfall. I wonder where his final resting place will be. Beneath stones? Amidst reeds? On a bank at water’s edge? Will his body ever be laid to rest?   
  
Will mine?   
  
Rest, a word as foreign to me as hope. Or joy.   
  
Toil is the remedy for thoughts of coffins, of graves. Toil is the opposite of rest and contemplation.   
  
When I toil, I forget the earth that blankets my wife and the water that cradles my friend. I forget how much I want to join them amongst their elements, relinquish my air for her earth, his water.   
  
I never forget for long.   
  
These days, regardless of toil, the thought is ever present: how I long to be drowned in water, entombed in earth, and not, amidst the living, buried.


	27. Thx 4 Nothing. (ACD. Retirementlock.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Harvest  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 500  
> Content Notes: Retirementlock.  
> Summary: Holmes harvests his first honey.  
> Author's Note: Follows [Stings](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7390423/chapters/16787080%22) and [Turn of the Tide](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7390423/chapters/17143984). In a nutshell, Holmes and Watson are estranged in retirement. Also for the July LJ Holmes Minor prompt: bees.  
> Prompt: **Thx 4 Nothing:** Holmes has never been known to write letters where a telegram would serve, and Sherlock would rather text than talk. But the easy way is not always the best way. Show a time where a communication shortcut did more harm than good.

“Hullo? Watson? Are you there? Oh, yes. I wanted to tell you about the honey. No, not money. Honey. HONEY! Well, also about money, perhaps, because the first harvest has been so bountiful, I have plans to sell some in the village. But I wanted you to be the first to hear about it. What? Can you hear me? Oh, there you are. You really must invest in a proper device. No, it’s not my device, or the village’s, rather, it’s yours! Care to visit? Oh, can’t get away. Yes, well, of course. What? Watson? Oh, the line’s dead. Cause of expiry? Insufficient communication.”

* * *

_My dearest Watson,_

_With no one else would I want share these first fruits of my year’s labour. I hope that this inaugural sample of Holmes Honey is to your liking, and you have a standing invitation to join me in Sussex to partake of more. There is always space for you in this cottage and in this life. Space and necessity, for, as ever, I am lost without my Watson and, as ever, I remain yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

Wrong.

Too florid. Too sentimental.

I set the letter aside, behind the jumbled pile of jar, box, brown paper, and string, and reached for a card.

_Watson—_

_A gift for you. Enjoy._

_—Holmes_

Much better. Straightforward. Clear.

“Mister Holmes!”

“Sir?”

I waved my old housekeeper away. Through the window, I could see a boy racing towards my front door.

“Mister Holmes, the Colonel’s on his way! Says one of your bees stung Mungo! The poor dog’s dead! And he’s got his gun!”

There was a warble behind me as I rose.

“Sir?”

“Yes and yes!” I snapped impatiently and nodded to the desk where an envelope with the week’s wages lay on the corner. I shoved Watson’s card in my pocket, grabbed my coat, and hurried out the door.

* * *

I returned two hours later.

“This is one I must tell Watson. The grandson of a decorated war hero believing that he could implicate one of the bees of a Sherlock Holmes hive in a crime! As if I cannot distinguish between a bee’s stinger and a hypodermic syringe! Silencing the poor watchdog so that he could make off with the family’s silver in the middle of the night!” I shook my head. “Rest in peace, Mungo. I shall care for your heir in a much better fashion than the Colonel cared for his. Really, as payment for services rendered, you are unique, my dear fellow.”

I gently petted the bull pup that lay dozing against my chest. He woke and began to squirm.

I stopped.

“Oh!”

Empty desk.

No box. No jar. No letter.

I replayed the scene in my mind.

What had the old woman said? Something about a church fete and…

…the post.

“I hear but I do not observe,” I said solemnly. “Well, we could rush to the village and retrieve it, my little friend, but no. Let’s see what comes of it.”


	28. In July the sun is hot; Is it shining? No, it's not. (Link.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: It's Not the Heat, it's the Sanguinity  
> 'Verse: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Teen  
> Length: 500  
> Content Notes: Four Horsemen AU, fluff, puns.  
> Summary: To beat the heat of the blood moon, John and Lestrade seek out a pond. (And the armadillos are still on the loose!)  
> Author's Note: From Revelation 6:12-13 "And I beheld...the moon became as blood; And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind."  
> Prompt: **"In July the sun is hot; Is it shining? No, it's not."**

[Chapter 9 ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7370809/chapters/17332045)of Four Horsemen


	29. Arr! (Link.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Sign of Four (Rodents)  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 800  
> Content Notes: references to "The Sussex Vampire" and "The Great Mouse Detective" (feel free to imagine the Giant Rat of Sumatra in Vincent Price's voice. I did), AU, Crack, Anthropomorphism, OCs (Inky Quill, mine, porcupine & Mouselet of thesmallhobbit)  
> Summary: Inky Quill the porcupine confronts the Giant Rat of Sumatra at a wharf-pub and gets some help from a disguised Watson (and his undisguised revolver).  
> Prompt: **Arr! Arr! ARRR! Arr! Arr!** Send Holmes and/or Watson down to the dockyards, or away to sea, or aboard a ship. Sinister cargo, sinister crew? Does a sailor come to them for help, or is there mischief brewing down at the harbour warehouses? It's up to you!

[Chapter 6](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6848800/chapters/17355409) of From the Pen of Inky Quill


	30. "Why exactly do you need chloroform at 2am?" (ACD. Poetry.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Chloroform  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 107  
> Content Notes: Poetry; English sonnet, humour, crack.  
> Summary: Along the same lines as others' entries, but just in verse instead of prose.  
> Prompt: **"Why exactly do you need chloroform at 2am?"**

Oh why have you a rag of chloroform   
at these, the wee-small morning hours, my friend?   
Is brooding Queen beset by Nature’s storm   
And faithful doctor off, his help to lend?   
  
No, cunning thugs have breached our humble home,   
your gun’s at some far distance, I surmise.   
Your arms? A sleep-draught cloth and heavy tome.   
A ready soldier has to improvise.   
  
Perhaps you’re eager to experiment,   
to test a therapy or treatment new   
This lab assistant’s less than diffident,   
with skills like mine, we’ll find your answers true.   
  
But, no. Oh why have you—? _I want to sleep!_   
_ That damned violin's worse than cats in heat! _


	31. Once More, With Feeling (ACD. Holmes/Watson. Cheeky dialogue.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: A Night at the Opera  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Mature  
> Length: 500  
> Content Notes: Holmes/Watson; all dialogue; references to "The Red Circle" and "The Red-Headed League"; references to public sex and voyeurism; cheeky banter.  
> Summary: A conversation during intermission.  
> Prompt: **Once More, With Feeling** Music has always had a major role in the lives of the Baker Street denizens. Use or allude to some form of music in your offering.

“How did you enjoy the second act, Watson?”

“You mean you can’t deduce it? Shocking to see a great mind laid so low!”

“Come now, my dear man, bricks and clay. For some people, snoring might be sign of passionate appreciation. Yours did have a certain Wagnerian heft to it.”

“Forget me—“

“Never. Not even the three years that I was dead.”

“Holmes.”

“I’m sorry. Do go on.”

“Shall we temporarily leave my enjoyment, or lack thereof, aside—“

“Even more heartily, I cry, never!”

“Holmes, please, let me finish!”

“Oh, yes, by all means.”

“Did you ‘introspect’ as you desired? That was the point of the evening, German music, as you say, being more introspective than French or Italian.”

“No and more’s the pity. Despite all wishes and plans to the contrary, I was plagued with ‘grasshopper mind,’ thoughts flitting from blade to blade, but never settling to sing on any one theme.”

“Thoughts of the case?”

“Yes. I thought of Fairdale Hobbs. For every one King of Bohemia we have aided, there are at least ten Fairdale Hobbses and Mrs. Warrens who have received no less stellar service. I thought of Gregson, his future and if our paths shall ever cross again. I thought of the caves of Long Island. Of course, my thoughts returned again and again to the music, but again and again they strayed. To the Luccas and their matrimonial devotion in contrast to our neighbours’ clandestine frigging. I thought of the proliferation of secret societies in America and your recent defection to a new brand of pomade.”

“Wait, what frigging?”                                          

“In the box to our right.”

“The gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“And the…”

“Officer.”

“But that was…”                                                                                                                                       

“Yes.”

“…and the other was almost certainly…”

“Yes.”

“But there was a lady, too!”

“Much can be concealed behind a well-placed fan or muff, Watson.”

“True, but in a theatre!”

“Discretion does not equal invisibility, at least not to the observant, and I am, of course, always observant. There was at least one other observer, and if I am not mistaken, and I rarely _am_ mistaken, he paid for the privilege to observe.”

“Good Lord.”

“I’m beginning to doubt your experience of intimacy truly spans three continents, Watson.”

“I did not perform circus tricks across those three continents, Holmes, although, to be fair, the expedition to Antarctica was more of a study in loving oneself.”

_“Medice, cura te ipsum.”_

“Something like that. I suppose the allure is in the prospect of being discovered.”

“A case of risk heightening pleasure, to be sure.”

“And to think I slept through it all! What are the odds of a repeat performance after intermission?”

“Nil, I spied our trio exiting the venue.”

“Too bad. Catching a glimpse of them might have made the third act more palatable.”

“Watson.”

“Holmes.”

“Watson.”

“Holmes.”

“Discretion is the better part of valour. I am the world’s most discrete detective, just ask the King of Bohemia.”

“And I am ever the brave soldier. Have I mentioned Maiwand?”


	32. That's All Folks. (MDBD. Reunion.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Tan Largo el Olvido  
> 'Verse: My Dearly Beloved Detective  
> Rating: Teen  
> Length: 1030  
> Content Notes: Shirley/Jane, 10 years post-canon, mention of Jane's OC daughter, reunion, happy ending, Pablo Neruda poems.  
> Summary: Jane asks Shirley to take on her daughter as apprentice detective.  
> Author's Note: For amnesty prompt #10: That's all Folks. Let the end be the beginning (or the entirety of today's entry). Also because gardnerhill shamed me into writing something happy for these two :)

“Oscillation, Mister Green. I once said that oscillation upon the pavement means there’s an _affaire de coeur_ , but what does oscillation at a window indicate?”

I give the figure in the street below a wry smile before turning and letting the curtain flutter back in place. “Her third visit in as many days. Perhaps this time she’ll ring the bell.”

Mister Green is mid-shrug when the bell rings. He gives an impassive nod, which hides an impassive smile.

My hands go to my waist. I smooth my belt and unfasten and refasten the clasp until the shadow in threshold becomes a person.

“Jane.”

“Shirley.”

“How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you.” A lie. Even a casual glance belies the wellness of Jane Watson, no, I correct myself, of Mrs. Robbie Summers. “How’s business?” my visitor asks.

“Booming.” The services of Sherlock Holmes are as in demand as always, though as the years pass I am even more selective as to the cases I accept.

“Good.” Why is Jane relieved? “I’ve come here on business myself. I would like to ask you if you would consider taking Tilly on as an apprentice. She could earn her keep by assisting Mister Green with the household duties.”

I frown. Apprentice detective?

“She’s smart. Knows how to read, write, and do sums. She was quite taken with the tract of the other day.” Jane pushes a strand of hair behind her ear and studies the edge of the desk. “Some nerve, no? I appear after ten years, asking for a favour, but when I saw you in the street earlier in the week, I thought, well, this might be the answer.”

Though not certain of my response, I begin. “Jane…”

Jane looks up, tears pooled in her eyes. One blink and they will surely spill down her cheeks.

“Shirley, teach her. Please.”

I look away at the entreaty in Jane’s voice. Jane Watson would never beg. Mrs. Robbie Summers seems adept at it.

I am ill.

“Teach her how to be a detective. Teach her how to see the world as you do. Teach her to be extraordinary. I owe that much to her. A chance at something extraordinary.”

The tears are streaming now.

“And if she chooses to be ordinary?” I ask, bitterness, whose existence I had scarce admitted to myself, escapes. The sight of Jane’s stained, threadbare handkerchief nauseates me anew; I offered her mine.

“She won’t. I am her constant reminder of what ordinary is.”

“Not true,” say I firmly.

I wince at Jane’s laugh.

“No one’s more ordinary, more invisible than a plump, middle-aged mother tottering about. The only unusual thing about me is that I am a widow with a living husband. That is, I assume he’s still alive. Somewhere.”

"Invisibility is just another word for camouflage, which is a prize in detective work,” I remark. “Use your opponent’s weakness against him, and to underestimate Jane Watson,” words chosen carefully, “is a grave weakness.”

The compliment is rewarded with a weepy smile, that I tuck between the pages of a dictionary for later.

Just then, Mister Green appears with a tea tray.

“How are you, Mister Green? It’s good to see you.”

He shrugs, but sets a heaping plate of cream cakes before us.

The disguised hunger with which Jane looks at the cakes and the way her hand trembles when she places a single one of her plate, confirms my decision.

“I will take Tilly on, if, and only if, you monitor her progress carefully. And with certain lessons, I shall require your assistance.”

Jane nods, then smiles, then sinks into the chair with a sigh.

I tuck the moment away beside the other, then ask,

“Now, if you were I client, I would ask you this simple question: do you wish to find your husband?”

“To divorce him, you mean?”

That is unexpected.

Jane chuckles. “Ten years is a long time for scales to finally fall from one’s eyes but…” She shrugs. “I suppose I’d prefer to receive news that he’s fallen off a cliff and made me an actual widow.”

“Jane!”

Jane laughs, then shrugs again, and reaches for another cake.

Eat, Jane, I silently urge as I drum my fingers on the table. “There are ways of making man’s foolishness come home to roost sooner rather than later, but that’s for a forthcoming discussion.”

“What about you? Still plagued with serenading matadors beneath your window?”

“No. I am carrying on a torrid love affair with these two at the moment.” I open a drawer and slap a meerschaum pipe and a thin tome on the desk beside the tea things.

“They keep you warm at night?” asks Jane, lifting the book and reading the cover. “Pablo Neruda?”

“You may borrow it if you like.”

“And deny you your bed partner? Hardly seems sporting,” she teases.

Warm skin. Heart racing. A bit of recklessness is out before I have a chance to catch it.

“We can share him. Or I can read it to you. It sounds nicer in Spanish.”

Jane grins. “Like old times? Across a jail cell?”

“Perhaps.”

I look down, then feel a hand on mine.

I keep my gaze fixed to our hands, one atop another, no indication of where one starts and the other stops.

“I would like that,” whispers Jane.

I find my voice, my real voice.

“Have Tilly here at eight o’ clock tomorrow morning. We can discuss your case,” I stress the word, “while Mister Green orients her to the premises.”

Jane nods and wolfs down a third and fourth cake.

* * *

And it was not until much later, after Jane and Tilly were in my life, after Jane was not just in my dreams, but also in my bed, after I had done to Jane, as Señor Neruda says, what spring does to the cherry trees, that Jane confesses that she considers that particular day to be the last of Mrs. Robbie Summers and the first of the reborn Jane Watson.

Not the day we made legitimate your widowhood? I ask.

No, she says. That was the end and the beginning: the day I oscillated upon the pavement for the third time and finally mustered the courage to ring the bell.


	33. Use Your Words. (ACD. Retirementlock.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Homecoming  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 700  
> Content Notes: Retirementlock, fluff.  
> Summary: Watson returns to Sussex.  
> Author's Note: Concluding entry to my miscommunication Retirementlock entries: Stings, Turn of the Tide, and Harvest (Chapters 1, 20, and 27 of this collection)  
> Prompt: **Use your words.** Use all three words in your entry: childhood, old age, sore feet.

I knocked.

The door opened.

“Watson!”

Surprise. Joy.

Undisguised. Unmitigated.

I had not only surprised Sherlock Holmes, I had overjoyed him.

His was the exuberant reaction of childhood, of Christmas and birthdays and frogs jumping out of teachers’ desks.

And in his surprise and joy, I forgot my old age; forgot my cold, sore feet and my stiff, aching back; forgot the misgiving that had dogged every step of my journey. My worry faded like a puff of warm breath in the crisp, late autumn air. And of all the things that I had thought to say, of all the pithy, witty, and heartfelt oaths I had rehearsed along my trek, I chose the most inane.

I produced a small, empty glass jar and said, “Have you anymore?”

He laughed heartily and clapped me on the back and cried,

“Yes! This skep is fully provisioned for the winter!”

Then his eyes raked down my form to my boots.

“You’ve walked from the village. My dear man, your feet must be hobbling you by now. Come, an early dinner by the fire. Our hours are our own, just as in Baker Street. And I shall slaughter the fatted calf, or a pair of plump woodcock, rather, in honour of your return!”

It did seem like Baker Street once more, with the remnants of a fine meal—Montrachet, too, I noted with delight—scattered about the table and he and I sitting opposite each other before a crackling fire. The only difference was that my trousers were rolled up to my knees and my feet were soaking in a basin of hot, fragrant water.

“I’ve brought you a gift,” I said, reaching for my bag. I produced a brown-paper-wrapped parcel and handed it to him.

He unwrapped it and smiled.

“ _Acherontia atropos_. The Death’s Head Hawkmoth.”

The yellow-and-black winged creature lay pinned under glass.            

“It reminded me of you,” I said.

“Because of its association with evil and superstition? Because of the eerie sound it makes, ejecting air through its proboscis, it is feared by some villagers.”

“No, because with its colouring and its ability to mimic the scent of a queen bee, it can breach a hive at night and make off with four or five cells of honey and depart without any other the other bees being the wiser. Therefore, it is a master of disguise—just like Sherlock Holmes.”

He laughed. “Thank you. I find something equally pleasing in the skull-shaped markings on its thorax.” He set it on the mantelpiece and sat back in his chair, gazing at it.

I studied the fire for a moment, then took a deep breath and said, “Holmes, your letter, was it truth or cordial hyperbole?”

“Watson,” he admonished. “When have you ever known me to engage in the latter?”

“You said,” I fumbled, then paused, then began again. “You said you had need of me, but you seem so wholly sufficient here.”

“I have need of you, Watson,” he said plainly, but solemnly. “At your previous visit, I was endeavouring to demonstrate that even though this is, comparatively speaking, an isolated and unsophisticated part of the world, there is still companionship and intellectual stimulation to be had. Still, features of interest.” He pronounced the last with a twinkle in his eye. “It was all meant not to exclude you, my dear man, but rather the just the opposite, to entice you.”

I smiled and shook my head. “I’ve been a bit proud and a bit stubborn.”

“No,” he teased. “Well, then nothing has changed. His eyes drifted to my small bag. “So, a weekend visit?”

“I’ve left a large trunk at the station.”

His eyes widened and he clasped his hands together and cried, “We must call for it at first light!”

I laughed and nodded.

“Please make yourself at home, Watson,” he said, throwing his arms wide.

I knew what he meant but, given the time we had wasted, I chose to speak, rather than just nod.

“May I make this my home?” I asked.

His eyes shone. He smiled with lips closed, then swallowed and nodded.

“Please do,” he whispered and handed me a towel to dry my feet.


	34. The arts. (ACD. Holmes/Watson. 221B. Humor.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Bellas Artes  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Teen  
> Length: 221  
> Content Notes: Holmes/Watson, cheeky Holmes  
> Summary: Holmes & Watson discuss art.  
> Author's Note: Kate Greenaway's _The Language of Flowers_ gives 'vulgar minds' as the meaning of African marigolds.  
>  Prompt: **The arts.** music H &W seem to agree on, painting no so much

“…I can’t say that I agree with you, Watson. Though our tastes in music are complimentary, if not identical, I fear that our opinions diverge greatly when it comes to the _bellas artes_.”

Holmes lowered his pencil.

“My dear man, would you mind pivoting three degrees to your left? Yes, thank you.”

He took up his pencil, and his topic of discourse, anew.

“While paintings needn’t all be rolling meadows or stags at hunt, they should possess, to whatever degree possible given the artist’s skill, some realism. Impressions, abstractions, dots and lines that suggest but do not define, are much like theories before facts.”

“I suppose my travels abroad have altered what I pleases me aesthetically,” I said. “I find the suggestions, as you call them, more beautiful than any landscape or study of milkmaids.”

“There.” He returned pencil to case.

“May I see?”

“Of course, but fair warning: art in the blood, while liable to take the strangest forms, does dilute when it’s diverted along too many arteries.”

I reached for my dressing gown as I stepped behind him.

“Holmes!”

“Why you felt the need to disrobe and pose for me while I sketched that bowl of African marigolds, I don’t know, Watson,” he looked up with a wicked glint in his eye, “but the muse approves heartily.”

“Cheeky bastard!”


	35. What's a Character Like You Doing in a Place like 221B? (Jane Eyre crossover. Genderswap. ACD)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Reader, I Married Her  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> Rating: Teen  
> Length: 644  
> Content Notes: Jane Eyre crossover; Holmes/Watson, genderswap, one mention of masturbation, references to The Sign of Four.  
> Summary: Mr. Rochester comes to 221B.  
> Author's Note: An idea that was better in my head than on paper.  
> Prompt: **What's a Character Like You doing in a Place like 221B?**

“My plate is quite full at the moment, Mister Rochester, but I have listened to your tale with care. If you leave the particulars, Parisian addresses of note as well as where I may contact you in London, with Doctor Watson, I shall apply my methods to the case. If you don’t hear from me in three days’ time, then either all is lost or my own schedule has become too harried to pursue any further lines of inquiry regarding your missing wife.”

“Thank you, sir. And thank you, Doctor Watson.”

After some minutes, our visitor handed me a detailed list and I handed him his cane, which had fallen on the rug.

After the front door closed, Holmes and I sat in silence for one quarter of an hour. Then a second quarter.

Finally, I spoke.

“Well, that was the most harrowing few moments of my life.”

“Really? More so than the red-room?”

I sighed, then spoke again, this time slowly, carefully, pronouncing each word with the solemnity of a wedding vow.

_“You are a master of disguise, Sherlock Holmes.”_

My words were met with a huff.

“Remember I don’t rank modesty as a virtue, Watson. I accept half the credit for our _coup_ , no more. The other half lies with you yourself.”

“How so?"

“You created a character, two, in fact, that the reading public adores. What’s more you created an _expectation_ of who and what they will see when they cross that threshold. They see what you have told them is there, regardless of what their eyes convey. The power of suggestion is very much a power. And yours to wield.”

“But Holmes…”

“Also he’s a fool. Always has been.”

“To not recognise your own wife!” I cried. “Or your would-be wife.”

Holmes snorted. “To not recognise your prisoner. Or your would-be whore. Perhaps it is because there are so many of us. That woman is not his wife.”

I set the list aside. “No, she’s not. One needn’t to be a detective to sort that out. Will you truly find her?”

“Perhaps. Have you any regrets, Watson?”

I did not hesitate. “Not one. I would’ve reduced the world to cinders for you.”

One twitch of one corner of a mouth.

Then my vision was clouded by dark, tobacco-scented silk. And a hand was in my trousers, slipping deftly beneath the trappings of masculinity to the very core of me.

I came, as I always have, without a sound or an outward movement.

Then the hand was gone.

The next words were spoken by Holmes when we were once again in our respective armchairs, a cloud of pipe smoke hovering between us.

“I am restless, Watson. A change, if you’re amenable, of course, may be in order.”

“What kind of change?”

“That yarn we spin on long, useless nights.”

“The one about the buried treasure and the convicts on the Andaman Islands?”

“Yes. Perhaps that.”

“My role would be…”

“John Watson, naturally.”

“And yours?”

“The angelic Miss Mary Morstan, daughter of the mysteriously late Major Morstan.”

“And what shall become of Sherlock Holmes?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Throw him off a cliff?”

“I don’t know that I should like to do without him.”

“You could muddle the dates, as you always do. Have us co-exist on paper for a while. We shall solve her case, this Miss Morstan, and then you shall fall in love and marry her. Shan’t be forever, of course.”

“Consumption?”

“Or pneumonia.”

“A wife?”

“A wife.”

“I don’t know,” I mused aloud. “Perhaps I should consult a fortune teller.”

The response was steeped in a West Indian lilt that I had not heard in years.

“Now why wouldcha be a-wantin’ to do that?”

Our eyes met. We laughed.

And so to put it plainly, dear reader, that is how I came to bury _him_ and marry _her_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
